Read Online The Orchid Tree by Siobhan Daiko - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Siobhan Daiko
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morning sunshine. What’s wrong with Mama?
‘There are ants crawling on everything,’ she wails.
‘I’ll boil up some water and pour it over them,’ Papa says in his keep calm voice.
Mama eyes the soaked sugar. ‘All ruined now. What a mess!’
I help Papa scoop up the soggy packets then glance at my mother. Oh, no! Her face has a yellowish tinge.
***
That night, a moan comes from Mama’s mattress. ‘I feel terrible. I’ve got the shakes and my head is killing me.’
Papa grabs a thermometer and takes her temperature. ‘Good God! It’s one hundred and three,’ he says, shaking the glass tube. ‘I’ll fetch some water, my dear.’
I hold Mama’s hand as she groans and thrashes about, then I help Papa sponge her down. Finally, Mama slips into a fitful sleep, but neither Papa nor I can bear to leave her side.
‘I’ll take your mother to the camp hospital,’ he says at daylight. ‘They’ll be able to help her. She’s probably got malaria and they must have some quinine.’
Regret surges through me as I remember my harsh words to my mother. I stay in and do my chores. How long has Mama had malaria? No wonder she’s been even colder than usual these past weeks. I scrub the toilet. How to make sense of things? Mama doesn’t resent me. She’s just ill, that’s all . . .
Papa returns at lunch-time. ‘They’ll keep her in there for a few days,’ he says, his expression grim. ‘Your mother would like you to visit.’
I follow the path around the headland to arrive at a three-storey red-brick building. Mama is in a ward on the second floor with four women and their new-born babies. I perch beside her on the bed.
‘Oh, darling,’ she says. ‘It’s dreadful. I can’t sleep with all the noise. Can you read to me, please? I need distracting.’
There’s a bookshelf in the corner of the room where I find a well-thumbed copy of Gone with the Wind . I read aloud as my mother dozes.
“Let’s don’t be too hot-headed and let’s don’t have any war. Most of the misery of the world has been caused by wars. And when the wars were over, no one ever knew what they were all about.”
Then, later.
“Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach again and she said aloud: As God is my witness, and God is my witness, the Yankees aren’t going to lick me. I’m going to live through this, and when it’s over, I’m never going to be hungry again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to steal or kill - as God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again.”
I put the book down and wipe her forehead with a damp cloth. Mama has to survive this. She has to . . .
At the end of the week, Mama comes out of hospital. Her fever peaks and troughs, but Papa says she’s out of danger. Even so, my chest aches with worry.
I hope he’s right; he has a tendency to be over-optimistic.
***
On the morning of my birthday, I roll out of bed onto Mama’s mattress. She pulls an item from under her pillow. ‘I made it myself.’ Two of Papa’s silk handkerchiefs have been stitched together to make a halter-neck top. ‘I hope you like it.’
I take the gift and hold it against my chest. With joyful tears, I hug her and receive a peck on the cheek in return.
‘And I’ve got this for you.’ Papa hands me a bar of chocolate. ‘It’s the last one from my comfort parcel. I managed to save it from the ants.’
If anyone had told me a year ago I’d be happy to receive such gifts, I’d have thought they were mad. My usual presents are cashmere cardigans, Yardley’s toiletries, riding accessories and books. When the war is over and life returns to normal, I’ll appreciate every single thing I used to take for granted. It’s a firm promise I make to myself.
Once dressed, I go to queue for hot water. I took over the duty months ago, supposedly to give Papa some respite. But, actually, it’s a way for me to see Charles, even though he usually ignores me. This morning, though, he waves and I go up to
‘There are ants crawling on everything,’ she wails.
‘I’ll boil up some water and pour it over them,’ Papa says in his keep calm voice.
Mama eyes the soaked sugar. ‘All ruined now. What a mess!’
I help Papa scoop up the soggy packets then glance at my mother. Oh, no! Her face has a yellowish tinge.
***
That night, a moan comes from Mama’s mattress. ‘I feel terrible. I’ve got the shakes and my head is killing me.’
Papa grabs a thermometer and takes her temperature. ‘Good God! It’s one hundred and three,’ he says, shaking the glass tube. ‘I’ll fetch some water, my dear.’
I hold Mama’s hand as she groans and thrashes about, then I help Papa sponge her down. Finally, Mama slips into a fitful sleep, but neither Papa nor I can bear to leave her side.
‘I’ll take your mother to the camp hospital,’ he says at daylight. ‘They’ll be able to help her. She’s probably got malaria and they must have some quinine.’
Regret surges through me as I remember my harsh words to my mother. I stay in and do my chores. How long has Mama had malaria? No wonder she’s been even colder than usual these past weeks. I scrub the toilet. How to make sense of things? Mama doesn’t resent me. She’s just ill, that’s all . . .
Papa returns at lunch-time. ‘They’ll keep her in there for a few days,’ he says, his expression grim. ‘Your mother would like you to visit.’
I follow the path around the headland to arrive at a three-storey red-brick building. Mama is in a ward on the second floor with four women and their new-born babies. I perch beside her on the bed.
‘Oh, darling,’ she says. ‘It’s dreadful. I can’t sleep with all the noise. Can you read to me, please? I need distracting.’
There’s a bookshelf in the corner of the room where I find a well-thumbed copy of Gone with the Wind . I read aloud as my mother dozes.
“Let’s don’t be too hot-headed and let’s don’t have any war. Most of the misery of the world has been caused by wars. And when the wars were over, no one ever knew what they were all about.”
Then, later.
“Hunger gnawed at her empty stomach again and she said aloud: As God is my witness, and God is my witness, the Yankees aren’t going to lick me. I’m going to live through this, and when it’s over, I’m never going to be hungry again. No, nor any of my folks. If I have to steal or kill - as God is my witness, I’m never going to be hungry again.”
I put the book down and wipe her forehead with a damp cloth. Mama has to survive this. She has to . . .
At the end of the week, Mama comes out of hospital. Her fever peaks and troughs, but Papa says she’s out of danger. Even so, my chest aches with worry.
I hope he’s right; he has a tendency to be over-optimistic.
***
On the morning of my birthday, I roll out of bed onto Mama’s mattress. She pulls an item from under her pillow. ‘I made it myself.’ Two of Papa’s silk handkerchiefs have been stitched together to make a halter-neck top. ‘I hope you like it.’
I take the gift and hold it against my chest. With joyful tears, I hug her and receive a peck on the cheek in return.
‘And I’ve got this for you.’ Papa hands me a bar of chocolate. ‘It’s the last one from my comfort parcel. I managed to save it from the ants.’
If anyone had told me a year ago I’d be happy to receive such gifts, I’d have thought they were mad. My usual presents are cashmere cardigans, Yardley’s toiletries, riding accessories and books. When the war is over and life returns to normal, I’ll appreciate every single thing I used to take for granted. It’s a firm promise I make to myself.
Once dressed, I go to queue for hot water. I took over the duty months ago, supposedly to give Papa some respite. But, actually, it’s a way for me to see Charles, even though he usually ignores me. This morning, though, he waves and I go up to
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